


Out of the Box

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Spoilers through 1x09 promo, Whump, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-01-25 20:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: [Complete] - Where was the campground? What route had they taken out of the city? Where was the girl in the box? Malcolm chases ghosts of memories and struggles in the present.
Comments: 59
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments. Really love Prodigal Son. I'm captivated by character interactions, wordplay, and subtle recurrence.
> 
> A story where I wrote the end first, but thought it would require too much of a jump to be a standalone one-shot, so many chapters ensued. :)

Amidst the contents of several open case files, focusing required all of Malcolm's energy. Threads drew between them, yet thinned and disappeared, floating through his vision. He rubbed his eyes, willing his exhaustion to recede into the corners. Resettling, he coaxed himself into eating another spoonful of soup and picked up the threads again. He wanted the preliminary profile completed when Gil returned.

Gil entered the conference room to find Malcolm still nursing the bowl of soup between the open case files laid out in front of him. "You turned eating soup into a two hour ordeal? You've solved cases faster than that."

He shared a grim smile. "I'm not hungry. But I'm lightheaded, so if I don't eat, I'm likely to drop and leave you with a more concerned look than the one you have now."

Gil neared the table, getting a closer view of the persistent purpling under Malcolm's eyes. "I can take you home."

The puzzle in front of him was more interesting than the inspection. “You know that's not going to happen until we're done."

"You know I'm still going to offer." Gil rested his hands on the table, looking across the files. "How's that coming?"

"Slow. A web flying in the breeze without any anchor points. I know you wanted to go through this when you got back, but I need some more time."

"I'll leave you to it." Gil picked up the bowl. "Gonna heat this - it'll be easier to finish."

Malcolm tipped his head in thanks and Gil disappeared out the door.

* * *

By the time Malcolm finished, Gil had been pulled away to talk to the brass. He emerged from the conference room intent on freshening up and getting some much needed coffee. A few officers pushed by him, taking over the room behind him.

Crossing through the bullpen, he heard raucous arguing coming from the break room. Clips of several voices reached him before ones he didn't expect. Bits of his sister's practiced authority made it to his ears, followed by his father's yelling. All of the officers stood transfixed on the television. _She used that? _The content he caught had been edited, but how edited? What about the preamble? _Dammit_.

His hand betrayed him, shaking at his side as his eyes darted around the bullpen. Everyone's words ran together, whooshing around him. A breath wheezed through him while he looked for a path to disappear. The stairwell was too far. A few more breaths fought for entrance to his chest, his breathing too shallow to let them pass. His eyes panned to Gil's office - reachable. He skittered toward it.

Malcolm shut the door behind him and sunk into a corner, his head falling to his knees. Each wheeze made it more difficult to stem the panic, and the endless supply of reasons airing the interview was bad news tried his ability to concentrate on measured breaths.

A sharp voice in the bullpen pierced through the cacophony. "I said shut it off!" Dani yelled, finally managing to pull the remote from an officer's grasp.

Malcolm brought his hands to his face, cupping his mouth with his numb digits. He took in a wheezy gasp and struggled to hold it in his chest. He tried again and held it a little longer. A multitude of attempts later, he stretched breaths further into his stomach. He traded panic for air and let it out in long tufts, counting each breath until he could hear the silence.

Thoughts crept in on the empty air: he needed to talk to Gil. If something were to happen at work, he would need his support. If things got worse at home, he would need his friend. Gil was _always_ there.

The door cracked a little, and he tilted an eye in its direction. He didn’t realize anyone knew of his haven. “Need anything?" Dani asked.

"No."

Dani gave a once over his crumpled suit. He looked like hell, but he was stable. "Shoot me a text if that changes."

“Thanks, Dani,” he said, and she closed the door and left him to the quiet again.

When Gil returned, Dani caught him in the bullpen. "The batteries are low on the energizer bunny," she said, gesturing toward his office.

Gil sighed and continued to his office. Opening the door, he found Malcolm in cave mode. His breaths were slow and methodical, the exhales producing a long, whispered stream of air. At the footsteps, Malcolm picked his head up, resting his back and head against the wall. "I needed a quiet place," Malcolm explained.

"It's here when you need it."

Gil dipped back into the hallway and retrieved him a cup of water. He passed the cup, and Malcolm took several sips. "Thank you," he shared when he had his fill.

Gil reached out his hand and helped him to his feet. "Let's get you home."

* * *

The world beyond the window captivated Malcolm's attention on the drive. _Where was the campground?_ Ghosts of the woman, the car, and his father passed through his mind, but he couldn't follow where they were going. The distraction of the interview had given his father too many opportunities to obfuscate the truth of his connection to the salvage yard. His sister was off trying to better her career while he was left with no further information to chart his way to the campground. His hand trembled against the door, his other hand covering it. _What did the streets look like? What route had they taken out of the city? Was there anyone in -_

"Bright, your stop," Gil's voice interrupted his reverie.

The other side of the window came into focus, and he confirmed they were outside his building. His eyes panned down the street, finding an empty parking space. "Why don't you come up?" he said, pointing.

Gil parked and they walked into Malcolm's building, climbing a few flights to his loft. "Can I get you a drink?" Malcolm offered, crossing to the kitchen and laying his tired suit coat over a stool.

"Whiskey?" Gil requested.

"Sure. Give me a second to put on some water for tea."

Waiting for the water in the kettle, Malcolm poured Gil's drink and stood at the counter. "How much should I worry, kid?" Gil asked, taking a sip.

"My therapist is concerned about a psychotic break," his voice carried a nonchalant, joking tone and he shrugged to make light of the situation, but it fell flat.

"Malcolm..." concern flooded his voice and faded when words wouldn't come.

Malcolm shook his head, busying himself with preparing his mug.

"What do you need? Time, support -"

"Sleep." He paced in front of the stove, stopping when the kettle whistled. He poured his tea and gestured toward the couch. "Can we talk about something?"

They migrated to the couch, Gil taking the chair beside it. Malcolm played with the string of the teabag. "What is it?"

"I don't want to lose my work."

"Don't do something stupid, and I think we'll be okay," Gil injected some levity back into the conversation, cracking the corner of Malcolm's mouth.

He spoke in dots, tracing his way to his point. "I'm a liability. If something happens at work, that reflects poorly on you."

"Did something happen?"

"No. One minute I'm fine and the next - " he trailed off, flicking his hand toward the distance. "My mental health is tenuous at best. You're my friend; my boss. I don't want to mess things up for you."

Gil met his eyes, trying to transfer some of the burden. "I knew that when I called you in. How about you let me handle that?"

"I'm struggling," he shared what he didn't want to admit.

"I'm sorry." Gil rested his hand on the arm of the couch a few moments to reach out to him and convey his support.

Malcolm dropped his attention to his tea again, and Gil gave him the space to keep thinking. He spoke slowly, feeling for courage in the ground underneath him. "Remember when Jackie was in so much pain, but the doctors couldn't find anything wrong? You pushed for what she needed until they finally got to a diagnosis. And you did the same every step of her treatment."

Gil swallowed to level his voice. "Yes."

"Can you advocate for me when things get worse?"

"When?" Gil pointed out the assumption of eventuality.

Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. They both knew things were on a downward slide.

"Of course." Gil sipped his whiskey, swallowing the responsibility he had taken on twenty years ago. "Promise me something?"

"What?"

"No matter how bad you think it is, find me, call me - keep me in the loop."

Malcolm nodded. "Kinda like this."

"Yeah."

"You might have taught me a few things." He held his thumb and forefinger mere centimeters apart.

"A few, huh?" Gil clapped his shoulder.

"Thanks, Gil."

They sat in comfortable silence, blanketed with memories of how they supported each other over the years. Gil finished his glass of whiskey and watched Malcolm's head dip toward the arm of the couch. "I can see myself out." He stood. "Try to get some sleep."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Sleeping in places that weren't his bed tended to end poorly. Malcolm returned to awareness when pain shot through his hand, the back of it throbbing where he had slammed it against the table. Folded into the corner of the couch, he clutched the wound to his stomach until the pain reduced to a dull drone, his penance for failing to stick to his routine.

Grabbing the TV remote, he queued up Ainsley’s interview on YouTube and watched through its entirety. It mentioned Malcolm as a victim, yet not the extent of the damage. There was no depiction of his father’s manipulative, staged activities. He rewound and replayed the footage of his father a few times, watching crinkles at his eyes and lips as his face glowed as a savior, highlighting Ainsley as the scapegoat of the interview. Everything was coming up Martin.

He shut it off, disgusted his father was getting positive press attention: just what he wanted. His fingers curled around the remote, frustrated that his sister had put her career before their family. Before _him_. When he felt the plastic straining, he let go, dropping it to the rug in a thunk.

He sought his routine again and got up to throw water on his face, brush his teeth, and check the door before dipping into bed. He secured his restraints and fought to fall back to sleep.

* * *

The banging was incessant, rough pounding reverberating from the door and into his head. “Malcolm!” his mother shouted. “What is this nonsense? Let me in.” The strain as she struggled against the chain added a metal clanging into the mix. “Malcolm!”

She'd call Gil, or worse, for the threatened welfare check if he didn't open up. Weary legs made it to the door to remove the chain and carried him back to bed. The movement exacerbated the pounding in his head and clouded his vision. Repeated lack of sleep was catching up with him. He wasn’t dealing with this.

Jessica flew through the door, her heels clicking across the floor, trailing him with pattering words. “Malcolm! We need to talk about this interview. I don’t know what your sister was thinking. She made him look like a saint!”

He remained in bed, turned away from the offending noise. “Get up! It’s a beautiful day to shame her. I don't want this happening again." She sat on the bed and touched his hair. "Dear..."

“_Don’t_.” He shrank away from her touch.

She pulled her hand back. “_Get. Up_,” she emphasized each word.

“Not today.”

“_Malcolm_."

She reached for him again and he flew over the side of the bed, facing the window. Energy shot to his fingertips, his hands gesturing frantically while he spoke. “I got outed by _my own sister_,” he raised his voice, pacing along the windows, “my head is killing me, and I just need some _goddamn sleep_!”

Jessica stood from the bed, taking in the display. "There, that's what I need,” she coached. “Let's use that anger -"

“Please go," he pleaded, holding his head.

The only thing that mattered was her agenda. “Now, Malcolm -“

He spun and steeled his eyes, releasing a growl that cut her off again. “_Go_!”

Hand on her hip, she ground her heel into the floor and aimed the same striking look back. "Call me when you remember how to speak to your mother."

She left with the same haste she had entered, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Tile surrounded him, its cool touch slowing the jitters tickling under his skin. The chill cradling his cheek soothed the persistent pain pulsing through his head. He craved being held through the misery, an arm up out of the void, yet his old standby of shower walls was the best he could do.

His legs sprawled out in front of him, his sweatpants bunched up around the calf. The hair exposed on his legs and arms perked up, willing him to find somewhere warmer. Yet like all else in the world at that moment, the signal went ignored.

From his vantage point, everything was tilted. “I am more than my diagnosis,” he told the wall, his warped face reflecting back at him. “I am more than my diagnosis.”

He closed his eyes, escaping the light reaching through the door. In the darkness, he wandered pathways through his mind, hopelessly searching for the trail to the girl in the box.

* * *

The buzz of the intercom at the front door rang in the distance, yet he shelved it with all the other small boxes in his mind. His head wasn’t ready to move from his spot, and he wasn’t up for visitors. One unwanted guest was enough for one day.

Humming on the floor a few feet away from him brought his face away from the wall. The vibration stopped before he picked up his cellphone, yet as soon as it was in his hands, it shook again. “Hey, Ains,” he answered, his voice gravelly.

Her warm tone came across the line. “I’m outside, can you buzz me up?”

“Ains -“

She got straight to the point. “Mom says you’re in a state.”

"Being exploited by your sister will do that to a guy,” he offered a nod to the truth in their usual banter.

“That’s not fair,” she objected.

“You didn’t _ask_.”

She rested her open hand against the door. “I was doing my job.”

“Did Jin like it when you used footage of him when he was most vulnerable?” He attempted to bring her some perspective.

“He doesn’t want to see me anymore.”

“And you still don't realize there are some lines you shouldn't cross for the story?"

She tried to push him again. “Let me up.”

“Ains - not today,” his exhaustion creeped through.

She turned, resting her back and foot against the door. “Are you mad?"

"No. Tired. Hurt. Disappointed.” There was a cauldron of feelings toiling in the empty pit of his stomach. Only a few had come in response to his sister’s actions, and they’d lost their potency in the mix.

She shared a glimpse into her morning. "Mom’s livid. She draped my place in shame. I need your help.”

He tried to visualize his mother’s tirade, plotting her swath of rage through his sister’s apartment. “I’ll be there with you tomorrow when she drags us to Sunday brunch.”

Ainsley looked down at the sidewalk at her feet, finally accepting that she wouldn’t see her brother that day. “Are you safe?”

“Yes. Just need rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He hung up and leaned into the refuge of the wall again.

* * *

By evening, Malcolm’s headache had passed enough to pull himself to his feet. He stripped and turned on the shower, letting the warm beads fall over him. As much as the cold had helped his head, the warmth spreading across his skin was equally comforting, seeping into the cracks of his joints that had pressed into the stone.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he sought a fresh change of clothes. He put on water for tea and fed his parakeet, standing by while it ate. “Hi, Sunshine,” he spoke, watching each nibble. Most days, it was easier to care for the bird than himself.

He took his tea to bed with him, encasing himself in the blankets. Perhaps the coziness and valerian would calm him even if he couldn't sleep.

* * *

A 4AM yell after a 2AM yell propelled Malcolm out of bed and under the staircase. He cycled through reps of pull-ups, pushups, sit-ups, squats, and dips, and when his fingers still tingled with stress, he laced up his sneakers and went for a run. He needed to be composed by the time he saw his mother.

In late morning, Jessica called them to her house for brunch, not wanting to air their turmoil in public. To his chagrin, Malcolm arrived first and was ushered into the dining room.

“Have you slept at all?” she appraised his face.

Some form of that question had become most folks' greeting. “Please stop asking me. I don’t sleep. It’s my state of being.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “What would you like to eat?”

“Tomato soup.”

“Always with the soup,” the words walked from her mouth with the cadence of perfected criticism. “Why not something more substantial?”

Not even five minutes, and she was already grating on him. “Mother, Ainsley will be here any minute. How about channeling anxiety into something other than me?”

She stood from the table. “I need another drink.”

Malcolm sipped his coffee, letting its warmth permeate his hand. It was a short time until his sister slid in beside him, seemingly using him as a human buffer between her and their mother.

Jessica entered from the kitchen with their food. "Oh, no," Jessica scolded, setting Ainsley's food at the place setting across from Malcolm. "You own up to this."

Malcolm and Ainsley shared a look, and she walked around the table to take her customary seat. Jessica sat between them at the head of the table and began eating in silence. They followed suit, trading glances across the table.

"He looks a lot better than yesterday," Jessica pointed out to Ainsley.

"Mom accused me of breaking you," Ainsley shared.

"I'm fine." The more times Malcolm said it, the more likely it would be true.

"Sure seemed like it yesterday," Jessica spoke in disbelief and dropped her eyes to his hand shaking near his water glass.

Ainsley caught the interaction and drew her mother’s attention. “I’m sorry, Mom," Ainsley started.

Jessica was quick to strike, resuming the previous day's scorn. "You disgraced this family."

"Not any worse than dad."

"That's a high bar." She sipped her drink. “Your father is capable of twisting words however he wants to fit his narrative. He will _ruin_ you."

"You made that clear yesterday, Mom."

“It was a _setup_!” Her fingers hit the table on each side of her plate.

“You don’t know -“

“It was, Ains,” Malcom piped in.

Ainsley wondered at Malcolm, her banter with her mother momentarily interrupted while she tried piecing together how he knew.

“_Promise me_ you won't go back to see him,” Jessica urged.

"It's not like I can now that he's in solitary,” Ainsley pointed out.

"_Don't_ go back."

"I won't."

Jessica turned back to Malcolm. "_You_," she emphasized, "don't go back either. Seeing him is clearly not helping your health."

"Again, I'm fine," he reaffirmed.

"I don't want to walk into your apartment to find you _dead_,” she waxed melodramatic.

His boundaries had been impinged enough. “Then maybe stay out of it."

"Malcolm!" Jessica scolded and pushed herself away from the table.

Jessica made another trip to the bar, filling her third glass for the day. The swirl of Paul’s resurgence and Ainsley’s story had her tipped into the drink, a coping mechanism that kept her numb amongst the waves. 

Their mother’s back to them, Ainsley frowned at Malcolm, disapproving of his choice of response.

They finished eating in silence, just as they had begun. Ainsley and Malcom kept sharing glances, seeing who would broach the topic of ending the visit. “Mom, thanks for brunch. We’re gonna go,” Ainsley spoke.

"No more family stories on the nightly news, alright?" she reinforced.

"So daytime is okay?" Ainsley retorted.

Jessica’s glare would fold anyone unaccustomed.

"You made your point, Mom."

"I'll have dinner for you both on Wednesday. Look after each other."

* * *

Ainsley and Malcolm exited their mother's house to walk the sidewalk. "You really got her going this time," Malcolm recapped.

"Wasn't as bad as yesterday." Pawn, accomplice, traitor - all words she'd been called the previous day.

"She gave you an earful?"

"It's Mom. She was a whirlwind through my apartment.”

"She’s already worked up over Paul, and this didn't help things."

“Is that why you’re not sleeping?”

“Among others.” He swapped the topic, not wanting to revisit the previous day. "I'm sorry to hear about Jin."

She shrugged. “I don’t think I cared.” Ainsley touched his shoulder. “You on the other hand - I got a bit overzealous with the interview. I'm sorry."

"My story isn't yours to tell." He clearly stated his position.

"I got it."

He put his hands in his pockets. "Ains, I'm not a victim."

"What would you call it?"

"Malcolm. I am a Malcolm."

"You're something." She shoved his shoulder and they continued down the sidewalk to the subway.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm's desk was layered with notes trying to find the link between Paul and his father. Across several maps, he had circled every campground west of New York within a reasonable travel distance. He knew they had traveled through New Jersey, yet he suspected they did not stay there. His money was on Pennsylvania. That likely put them on an I-80 or I-78 route. Had they taken a bridge or a tunnel? Unless they were going upstate, they didn't usually take any of the bridges. But Paul's salvage yard was in the Bronx. Had they taken the GWB? He tried to recall whether he had seen water or tiles staring out the window, yet the memory eluded him.

It had been days since Malcolm had been called into the station. The Junkyard Killer case had been usurped by the FBI, and with it went the present need for Malcolm. This left him with the focus of trying to retrace the camping trip and find the girl, yet not the balance. He was many panes of Street View, pages of George Washington Bridge photos, and several pages deep into photos of Lincoln and Holland Tunnel tiles when humming pulled him from his crusade.

Turning his phone over, the display lit up with Gil's name. "Please tell me you have a murder," he answered in anticipation.

"Try to sound a little less excited,” Gil chided.

"So I like my job."

Gil shook his head. "We have a vic who's carved up - meet us at the scene."

Gil relayed details on the address and ended the call. Malcolm changed, hopped the Subway, and walked the last few blocks to the scene.

* * *

Gil's directions brought Malcolm to a small studio filled with police personnel. Glancing through the doorway, he found stacks of paintings leaning haphazardly against the walls and drop cloth lining the floor. Gil spotted him and beckoned with his hand. "He needs to get in," he alerted an officer at the door, "can you trade?"

The space was so tight, they were closely monitoring the number of people inside so as not to contaminate the scene. The officer slipped out and Malcolm entered. He didn't see Dani or JT. "They're downstairs on the patio talking to the sister," Gil answered his unasked question and acknowledged their absence.

"Vic is Tanya Burrows. Her sister last saw her two days ago. When Tanya was late for their girls day, her sister came looking for her and found her dead," Gil shared, pointing to a large canvas on the floor behind them.

Malcolm rounded the personnel hard at work at the corner of the canvas to find a serenely lazed, heavily mutilated body. "Scarification," Malcolm spoke, mesmerized by the patterns carved into the nude woman's posed form.

Gil followed Malcolm's eyes, waiting for further explanation. "Ritualistic cuts that make permanent designs when the skin heals," Malcolm explained.

"An extremely painful form of body modification," Edrisa continued. "And I thought middle school stick and poke was bad. She was alive during the cutting: the wounds have bled."

"And the blood painted onto the canvas beneath her." Malcolm crouched and pointed. "Everything about this murder was staged."

"A fellow artist?" Gil hypothesized.

Eyes tracing her form, Malcolm found formulas, words, illustrations. "Or scientist. All physics I think," Edrisa shared, looking over her body from head to toe, "Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, Einstein's general theory of relativity, Schrödinger's cat - that's what I recognize so far."

"I'm impressed," Malcolm praised, "We're going to need a lot of closeups of all the designs to research."

Malcolm panned around the rest of the room and spotted a stand in the corner. Sidestepping a coned spot on the floor and walking behind the stand, he found a pinhole and a label. _Theory in Red_ \- artist unknown. He looked through the opening, the rest of the room obscured, save the scene the killer wanted them to see. "Maybe both artist and scientist," Malcolm spoke. "We need some photos from back here too."

"Give us some time to finish cataloging. No outward signs of COD. I'll be able to tell you more after the autopsy,” Edrisa noted.

Malcolm and Gil walked into the hallway, giving Edrisa and team space to finish the needed photography and evidence collection. "Let's see what they got from the sister," Gil said and led Malcolm out of the building.

* * *

In front of the building, Dani started the discussion of their victim. "Tanya Burrows, 24-year-old female. According to her sister, she graduated with a B.S. in Biomedical Science, and when her illustrations started selling well on Etsy, she chose to focus on her art full time. We got the link to her online portfolio - figured you'd want to comb through that." She passed a paper with a link scribbled on it to Malcolm.

"The studio was a rented space," JT continued. "Her sister said she spent most waking hours here. Her home address is a rented bed in an artist's community."

"See if you can talk to the other folks she lived with," Gil suggested.

"That's where we're going next," JT confirmed.

"This looks like an act of devotion. The scene is meticulously set. Her makeup is perfect, the cuts planned, her wounds tended and used as part of the art piece. A podium directing where to place your gaze. The incisions must have taken hours of close up work, something of deep meaning and gratification to the killer," Malcolm shared a preliminary profile.

"That's sick - no way you can call that art," JT rebuffed.

"You seriously want to enter a _what is art_ debate? With Bright?" Dani interjected.

"To the killer, it is," Gil reinforced. "Did you get anything else from the sister?"

"She wasn't dating anyone. Tanya and her sister met up a few times a week. They didn't have any other family," Dani detailed the rest of the information they had learned.

"Take Bright with you and go talk to her roommates,” Gil directed. “We'll meet at the station as soon as we're wrapped here. It's going to take all of us to decipher the markings."

* * *

JT drove them to the artist’s community, Dani riding shotgun and Malcolm sitting behind him. "I can't imagine cutting my skin to get a tattoo. My friend whimpered nonstop just getting inked,” Dani shared.

“Is this the friend you told me about?” JT asked, remembering the epic story of crying and handholding well. Dani nodded in confirmation. “She was the genius who decided to put a huge phoenix on her ribs - well known as one of the most painful areas to tattoo."

"You're telling me yours didn't hurt?" Dani was doubtful his was pain free.

"No, not really. Soft tissue for the win." He patted his upper arm.

"Bright, do you have any tattoos?" Dani queried.

"No.” Malcom tapped the top of JT’s seat at his shoulders. “Insignia? Bulldog? Barbed wire?"

"Jeez, you gave the kid a new game," JT complained, giving Dani side-eye.

Malcolm kept looking out the window, babbling tattoo ideas, enchanted by rows of openings in the railing. “Where are we?” he asked.

“And you call yourself a New Yorker,” JT scoffed.

"Not usually by car,” Malcolm admitted.

"Harlem River Drive - we’re about to cross over to Highbridge,” JT answered.

“Haven’t you ever been to Yankee Stadium?” Dani wondered.

Malcolm joked with JT, “You know, the players, the game…” The George Washington Bridge. Playing with the crank camping radio and watching gaps in the fence roll by along the water at sunset as they approached the bridge. Flicking on the built-in light and his father rushing to push his hand against it, telling him not to turn it or the radio on until they got to the campsite. Asking how long it would be until they got there.

Knocking on the back window startled his head back to the present. “Bright, you pick today to remember to wait? Let’s _go_.” JT urged.

Malcolm popped out of the car and hustled to catch up to his teammates. The route would be waiting for him at home.

* * *

Conversations with Tanya’s roommates confirmed they hadn’t seen her in a few days either. Though consensus was that wasn’t unusual, as she spent most of her time in the studio or at a showing. They took the addresses of two galleries that had a few pieces of her art on display and a third where she would be presenting a full collection in the new year.

Looking at Tanya’s space in the artist’s community turned up few personal possessions. “Didn’t want anything to get stolen,” JT commented.

Dani and Malcolm looked over the small, rough paintings tacked to the wall beside her bed with putty. Sketches of pencil-drawn finches, pigs, whales, llamas, and other animals were shaded and filled with typography in red paint of different viscosities from watercolor to heavy acrylic. “These are all trials,” Malcolm explained, “experiments before creating them on larger canvases.”

“_Theory of Revolution_,” Dani read brushed small caps from one of the drafts tacked to the top. “The stand at the scene said _Theory in Red_.”

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” Malcolm quoted.

Dani pursed her lips in thought. “Are you calling the carvings fan art?”

“Oh, hell no,” JT rebutted from the dresser.

“She said it, not me,” Malcolm defended, “though even these drafts could be considered fan art.”

Disgusted, JT started for the door. “I’ll find out when she made them. Get photos, and let’s get out of here. Ride’s leaving in ten.”

* * *

“Everything about her art is online. This reads like a novel,” Malcolm commented, looking at Tanya’s website on the drive back to the station.

“Her roommates said the drafts are all for the showing next year,” JT explained.

“There’s detail on each one here. ‘When on board B.S. Biomed, as student, I was much struck with certain facts of how animals were harmed in the name of science. These facts seemed to throw some light on why I chose to leave medicine for art,’” Malcom recited from the site. “That’s for the finch.”

Dani perused the site her phone as well. “‘Occasionally born with a sort of proboscis, the more they lie, the more die,’” she read. “Pig. Artist, scientist, activist - seems you’ve got two people to profile, Bright.”

“It’s going to take hours to get through all this content,” Malcolm realized. Between images of the body, numerous paintings from the scene and room, online portfolio, and a trove of blog posts, they’d be working through the unabridged version.

“Yippee,” JT snarked, “Good thing one of us doesn’t sleep.”

“Are you calling me an asset?” Malcolm asked.

“More like an ass.” JT was quick with the comeback.

“You’re glad I’m here,” Malcolm surmised with a warm lilt. JT actually enjoyed his company?

Dani turned her head to the backseat. “Don’t make it weird,” she cautioned.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Collaged with a multitude of images, the conference room became a makeshift art gallery. JT had printed all the photos of the victim and her artwork, and between the three of them, they had plastered most of the windows. Though considerable paper and ink had been exerted, it was much easier to grasp the big picture at a glance. What was typically the murder whiteboard transformed into the murder room. Solving, not doing.

Earlier works were cordoned on the exterior windows, full of vibrant colors that sang with life. An abstract phase heavy in gels and post-apocalyptic cities, colored pencil drawings of a variety of animals with swooping line overlays, and pop art renderings of many road signs. Together, the works formed a new timeline visualization of Tanya’s adventures in style and medium.

All the drafts and finished paintings from the new collection and photos of the victim were on the interior windows in shades of black, white, and red. Among them were the few works in the whole room that used mixed media. Where the exterior windows brought exuberance, the interior windows brought focus on carefully curated messages. Two windowpanes on the interior side remained open.

“Did anything happen in her life recently?” Dani wondered aloud.

“That’s what I’m going to work on,” JT said.

“Artists explore their way through all kinds of different styles - doesn’t mean something was wrong,” Malcolm noted.

“But she’s dead, _so_… we’re gonna look,” Dani pointed out. “I’ll see if she had any particularly fervent fans on social media.”

“Decoding the carvings, round one.” Malcolm held up two fingers.

“You want to try again?” JT suggested.

“Might end in him flipping you off,” Dani cautioned.

“Now that I’d like to see.” JT smiled.

Malcolm shook his head and retreated to the interior wall of images.

* * *

Split into sections, the photos mimicked a mosaic, each segment coming together to form a larger, complete work. One might appreciate the effort that went into the creation if the medium hadn’t been unwilling skin. And a woman hadn’t been dead.

Malcolm would remove a photo, try to identify anything in it, then replace it. Remove, identify, replace. Remove identify, replace. Hours of repetitive investigation to see if they could get any closer to who would have piled so much labor into the sadistic art piece.

"What does this look like to you?" Malcolm asked, setting a photo of one of the angry wounds on the table between Dani and JT.

Dani moved her hand in the air, trying to simulate how the cuts would have been made, but not seeing anything more than - “Slices?”

“Letters,” JT returned, clicking away at his keyboard and turning the laptop to both of them.

If they held their heads just right, maybe? JT traced the outlines on the screen with his finger, leading the team through what he had seen. “E - X - L?” Dani attempted to follow.

“P,” JT corrected. “EXP.”

Malcolm looked back and forth between the photo on the table and the screen. “It’s a stamp?”

“Give me the grid numbers for the rest of that area,” JT instructed.

Malcolm looked at the corners of the photos. “B-7, C-7, D-8, maybe E-8.”

JT pulled and processed the photos with a few clicks and trailed the sliced lines. “Expiration, I think.” He traced the screen again. “I can batch flip all of these and we can comb back through together,” JT offered.

“What was the word you used?” Malcolm struggled to recall. “Oh, yippee.”

“Look who’s pretending he doesn’t like this,” Dani teased.

“The puzzle, sure. The monotony…” Malcolm drifted, leaving the sentence behind when he saw JT had the photos ready to look through again.

* * *

It was nearly midnight when Edrisa entered the conference room with Gil, case file in hand. “You redecorated,” Gil noted, taken aback by the overwhelming number of photos papering the windows. “Like what you’ve done with the place.”

“What should we call it, the JT special?” Malcolm razzed.

“No.” JT’s firm response gave Edrisa an opening.

“Mode of death appears to be asphyxiation. Waiting on tox to be able to give you cause. No signs of struggle. Despite the cuts and um, death, she was well _cared for_?" Edrisa reached for the right words. "There are multiple puncture wounds in the soft tissue on the outside of her lower back.”

“Many sedatives would cause her to stop breathing in high dosage,” Malcolm noted.

“As for the handiwork, we’re looking for a scalpel and linoleum cutting tools,” she explained, handing the file to Dani.

“She’s a relief,” Malcolm commented, and was met with Gil’s probing stare. Malcolm pointed to one of the photos on JT's laptop. “A stamp. Like a linocut print, but the matrix is skin.”

“That’s a medium I hadn’t considered before,” Edrisa contemplated.

Gil brought the conversation back on track. “Suspect is male. We’re running his DNA.”

“His DNA?” Malcolm questioned.

“We collected semen at the scene. Near the stand in the corner,” Edrisa shared.

“Gross,” JT commented.

“He left his stuff but took the tools?” Dani balked at the stupidity.

“One of them is a replenishable resource,” Malcolm fathomed.

“Nope, not having this conversation. Next.” JT rolled his hand toward Edrisa.

“I don't expect matches beyond familial, as I didn't get any hits on his fingerprints from the stand either. Or at least I think they’re his, ‘cause they’re not hers, and they were on the placard.”

“So likely not a grad student or alumni,” Malcolm continued and babbled, “though statistically not likely anyway.”

“Brains are risky.” Edrisa smiled, tapping her head. “All the carvings are on the front of her body. He only modified what he could reach - he didn’t move her.”

“He only modified what he would _see_,” Malcolm corrected. “She was a work of art for his pleasure.”

“Is this for your pleasure?” JT questioned his liveliness on the topic. “Your pupils are huge, man.”

Malcolm defended, “It’s dark in -“

JT cut him off. “Not that -“

“Enough,” Gil stepped in, exchanging harsh glances with both of them. Was it the hour, the subject, the water? Quips dominated the room, competing for air. “What else did you get from the scene?”

Edrisa resumed, “We tested every artist’s implement we brought in - no positives for blood. The canvas she was on matches dimensions of other works in the studio.”

“Opportunistic?” Gil pondered.

“Not likely - there’s a dissertation on canvas and medium selection on her blog,” JT shared. “Every canvas she stretched for that collection was up there. Don’t get me started on paint.”

“Was there anything on the canvas?” Malcolm asked Edrisa.

“I’ll pull a Bright and put $20 on cat,” JT wagered.

“Tarmel is correct.” Edrisa pulled a photo from the folder in Dani’s hands. “‘One cat always brought home game-birds.’” 

“’A number of curious and authentic instances could be given of various shades of disposition and of taste being inherited. Whether through genes or learnings, the artist became her mother,’” JT finished from the ream of materials at his fingertips on his laptop. “Every painting has a series of blog posts. You could know what she was working on practically down to the brush stroke.”

“What do the lines and swirls in blood have to do with the cat?” Malcolm thought aloud.

“Expiration?” JT considered.

Malcolm’s hand tipped side to side in a so-so expression. “More work to do.”

“Anything stand out on social?” Gil asked.

“Not yet. I sent all of the blog and social content over to Analytics. Thought maybe they could narrow where we should concentrate our energy. They said they need overnight to run some of the jobs,” Dani relayed.

“I took closeup photos during autopsy that will be easier to use for research than the ones from the scene. Better lighting. I labeled everything I could identify.” Edrisa pointed at the folder.

“Looks like we’re plastering another wall,” Dani said, looking at JT.

“At least we know to flip them first this time,” JT acknowledged.

“Finish up and get out of here for tonight,” Gil advised. “We’ll all start fresh in the morning.”

* * *

The passing of the pane revealed frame after frame of black, yet Malcolm’s gaze remained transfixed. How long? An hour? Several? Bright pop from a flashlight wakening the bridge only to be snuffed by his father. How long? The frame turned to tile that took a moment to surface to recognition, and he shot from his seat, narrowly making it through the doors at his subway stop before they closed.

Following a warm shower and change of clothes, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. Donning his coat, Malcolm called a Lyft down the street from his apartment. “This is a weird request,” the driver admitted when Malcolm got in the car.

“Out and back - can’t be that weird,” Malcolm replied.

The driver was skeptical. “Over the GWB? To a park. At 1AM?”

“It’s a beautiful night. Just want to see the bridge,” Malcolm kept his responses brief. This guy was overly chatty for New York.

“It’s your money, man.”

“I’ll tip well,” Malcolm promised.

“Keep the stop to less than 10 minutes, will ya?”

“Sure. It’s all about the bridge anyway. Had to put in a stop for the ride to go through.”

How had the circumstances in his life led him to chasing a memory across a bridge instead of resting in his bed? Seeking some sort of comfort in a past filled with torment rather than assured safety in his loft. Was the father his mother had so desperately tried to keep him from really his worst enemy? Or was it himself? Left to his own devices, was he ever really safe?

When they reached the on-ramp, Malcolm requested, "Can you please go real slow on the bridge?"

"You got it."

Cable lights glowed on his left-hand side, teasing the right-hand’s darkness. _Not until the campsite_. Questions bombarded his mind, fighting to hit the top of the queue. What route? How long ’til we get there? Where’s the _girl_?

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Gil made it back into the station first and took the opportunity to start working through the stack of video footage he had collected from businesses across the street from the studio. Fast forward - people - pause - crawl. Fast forward - people - pause - crawl. He scrubbed through the entirety of the last day Tanya had been seen alive by the time he saw the conference room lights turn on. He migrated from his office, stopping for fresh coffee along the way.

“Good morning,” Gil greeted the room.

JT raised his hand from the table in a motionless wave and Dani tipped her coffee toward him. The somber room was weighted with ti-red. “This might perk you up. We have him on camera,” Gil announced. “Flagged in the archive - 13:22.”

JT pulled up the flagged video on his laptop and cued to the provided time. They all watched Tanya and an unknown man enter the artist’s community with their arms around each others’ backs. “Enough for height and build, but can’t see his face,” Gil conceded.

“She knew him,” Dani stated the obvious.

“Explains the lack of struggle,” Gil confirmed.

“Where’s this footage from?” JT asked.

“Building across the street.”

“Do we have him leaving?” JT wondered.

“Not yet. You can take a crack at it. Finished the first day, so pick up with the next,” Gil suggested.

Malcolm fumbled through the door, tossed a paper bag onto the table, and dropped into a chair. He rocked, testing the chair’s squeak a few times, and sipped his coffee. Dani investigated the bag’s contents and popped a bagel hole into her mouth. “Mmm, thanks.”

“It’s the perfect mix of bagel _and_ cream cheese in one morsel,” Malcolm shared, the words fighting over each other to jump out of his mouth.

Ignoring his exuberance in exchange for the prospect of food, Dani went back for a handful of seconds and offered one to Malcolm. He shook his head. “Can’t eat them.”

JT took the proferred bagel hole instead and grabbed a second one from the paper bag.

Electricity pulsed through Malcolm's fingertips, trying to find the shortest path to ground through the chair. “Can you eat something besides caffeine, bro?” JT voiced his concern.

He squeaked the chair again, and Dani rested her hand on the arm. For four legs planted firmly on the floor, he was sure getting a lot of movement out of the seat. “You missed something important,” Dani advised and pointed at JT’s screen. JT played the footage once more.

“She knew him!” Malcolm exclaimed, springing out of the chair. “That’s why no struggle - she had nothing to fear! Art… and message… and tal-“

“No shit, Sherlock,” JT announced over his frenzied monologue and gesticulation. JT searched Gil for some way to respond, yet found his attention drawn to Malcolm, eyebrows raised, trying to figure that out himself.

“Hey.” Dani grabbed Malcolm’s forearm, a reflexive action that halted the display. She let him go just as quickly. “Can you sit for a minute? We have more to go through.”

Malcolm’s eyes panned from Dani, to the table, then up and between JT and Gil’s faces, both of them trained on him. Concern? _Shit_. Deflated, Malcolm sunk to his chair, directing his energy to his coffee and the change in his pocket left from purchasing it.

JT tossed him a stress ball from a box on the file cabinet. “Try to keep your feet on the ground."

The well-meaning gesture bounced off Malcolm’s shoulder instead of being caught, and Dani bent to pick it up from the floor and deliver it to his hand. "Susceptible to fits and starts." He tried to pass off the outburst and channel the surge into the non-Newtonian fluid. “You said there’s more to go through?” Malcolm prompted Dani.

“I got the results back from Analytics,” Dani started slowly, watching Malcolm struggle to tame the static. “There are some full text hits for scientific works. As the collection name would suggest, Tanya had an appreciation for Darwin. The descriptions are quotes from _On Origin of Species_, modified with her own prose to share her message. Same thing with the typography in the paintings.”

Dani paused, looking to Malcolm for comment, yet he stayed silent.

“They also ran natural language processing on all social media exchanges and gave us frequency by topic by user. Bet you can’t guess what’s in this top five,” she read like a clickbait headline. They all waited for her to continue instead of playing along. “Physics.”

“How many accounts?” Gil asked.

“Twenty. There’s also a bunch of keyword search results, but the distribution is pretty scattershot. Might have better luck starting with the categories first.”

“JT, keep combing through footage to see if you can find him leaving. Powell, see if you can track down the twenty accounts and what they’re talking about. Bright,” Gil paused, stemming nagging thoughts of _go home_, “keep working on the painting to carving comparison.” Through assignments, he walked to the door. “I’m kicking you all out by eight. If any of you need a break, come by my office.”

“Where you going, boss?” JT queried, a tinge of _you’re leaving us alone with him_ leaking through.

“Sister’s coming in - want to see what we can find out about the mother,” he responded and left the room.

Malcolm still hadn’t ventured to take in the space beyond his chair. “I’m gonna go downstairs and get some coffee,” JT indicated. “Is toast on the short list of things you can eat?” he asked Malcolm.

“Yes. Dry.” His response was as plain as the order.

“I’ll be right back.” JT escaped through the door.

Left alone with Malcolm, Dani checked in. “You sleep?”

Another sip of coffee. “Not really.”

“Me neither. Too many ideas.”

“Not enough ways to use the energy sometimes, you know?” His behavior patterns without sleep were predictable in form and unpredictable in outcome. Rambling shoots from an epicenter leaving behind cracks until he crashed.

“Jumps out of your skin.”

“Yeah.”

She watched him play with the pliable material, flexing his fingers on endless loop.

“I can do a mean Black Lightning,” he joked.

She averted her eyes - perhaps she had been staring. “Weapons, a parakeet, and superheroes?”

“Now who’s profiling who?” he countered, his eyes giving her a ghost of a smile.

JT reentered, a few paper bags in hand. “White toast for you.” JT set a bag in front of Malcolm. “Egg sandwich for you.” He doled to Dani, and dug into his own sausage and egg sandwich.

“JT’s delivery service,” Dani teased, unwrapping her sandwich. “Thank you.”

“Let’s get to work,” JT directed.

* * *

Scrubbing security camera footage gave a window to the world flying by. Tenants in the building going about their day. Pedestrians passing on the sidewalk. Cars traversing the bustling street. Smatterings of people roaming through their own spheres, not recalling the world around them. Not realizing their every move was on camera.

“_Aaand_ we have a BOLO,” JT declared.

Dani and Malcolm stopped what they were working on and gathered around JT’s laptop. They watched a man exit the studio’s building, same clothes and backpack, just as calmly as he had entered with Tanya.

“When?” Dani asked.

“Evening before she was found.”

Malcolm surveyed the brown curls peeking out of a loose knit beanie and scraggly beard, disappointed he couldn’t make out more detail in his face from the security cam footage. Hope of finding him was preconditioned by an officer identifying him first, and those odds were slim based on the image.

Expecting a bit more excitement than the two quiet faces inspecting the screen, JT latched on to the positive. “Hey, it’s something, right? As far as we know, he was the last person to see her alive.”

* * *

In late afternoon, Dani checked on Malcolm’s progress with the wall of images. She stood beside him, matching his stance and casting the same wide look across the wall. Somehow, they were gradually climbing out of the content.

“The most obvious link between Tanya’s pieces and the carvings is the cat,” Malcolm explained. “From where the killer was standing, when she stopped breathing, she would have been both alive and dead.”

At her silence, he continued.

“But there are smaller links as well. Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle is about lack of precision - the bee discusses variation in natural selection. Einstein’s general theory of relativity explains gravity - the elephant is the largest land mammal that can support itself in that gravity. It’s like a call-response pattern. He made a physics equivalent to each biology nod she made.” He held out each of his hands in turn.

“Like cat and mouse,” Dani compared.

“Like flirting,” Malcolm said plainly.

She snickered. “If that’s your idea of flirting, you _might_ be doing it wrong.”

Mind on the case, he ignored the lob. “It’s an intellectual thing. He’s saying he understands her and sharing a response.”

“Yeah. He _killed_ her!” she emphasized.

Malcolm circled back to the table, Dani following suit. “Can I see the users you narrowed down? I want to run a few searches against the keyword matches Analytics gave you.”

“Knock yourself out.” Dani turned the laptop to him and took the opportunity to leave the room and stretch her legs.

* * *

Searching brought ambient noise of clicking, rummaging through papers, and steps to refill coffee mugs or clear heads. Dani and JT compared the security camera footage against social media accounts with photos for profile pictures, while Malcolm worked through the Analytics results Dani had narrowed. Finally getting somewhere, Malcolm announced to the room, “We need Gil to put in a digital identity request for a warrant to find out who theoreyes is. There’s banter from a few different users on translating _Theory of Revolution_ into Physics examples, Tanya included.”

“If we’re going to ask, let’s ask for all of them,” Dani pointed out.

“Then add mothinthedark and evodiva, the next two major contributors. But most of the chatter was started by theoreyes.”

“We have a photo for evodiva, but the other two are just avatars. I’ll get the Lieutenant,” JT offered and left the room.

“Then maybe we can pack things in for the day. I need some sleep,” Dani admitted.

Malcolm looked at his watch. “Gil’s going to send us home anyway.”

* * *

Malcolm chose to hop the subway north rather than go home. Getting off in Hudson Heights, he walked the short distance to Plaza Lafayette and looked out at the full span of the George Washington Bridge. The cable lights were out on the side nearest him, yet glowed on the far side.

Fully wound. Light. No. Fully wound. Light. No. How long ’til we get there? Fully wound. Light. No, Malcolm. _Malcolm, listen to your father_.

Repeated breeze against his cheek left his skin raw, his body’s suggestion he may want to consider going home. He popped his collar against the chill and sheltered his hands in his pockets. Fully wound. Light. No. How long ’til we get there? Malcolm, listen to your father. Listen.

Frustrated, he combed his fingers through his hair, grabbing the ends of the strands. He’d found a beautiful view, yet was no closer to recovering the route. _Listen_, his mind’s image of his father taunted him. He ducked his head and ambled back to the subway.

After he changed trains, his phone rattled in his pocket. "Hello?" he answered to a number he didn’t recognize.

"It's Eve. I'm working with -"

"I know who you are.” He smiled. Employed to understand people, he wasn’t going to forget her.

"Can I come by to talk?" she asked.

He looked out the subway car to the darkness in the tunnel. “I’m not home quite yet.”

“Um, you see, I’m already outside your apartment,” she admitted.

What? Again? “Everything okay?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, I’m on the way. Be there in 30.”

* * *

Malcolm ran from the subway station, slowing to a walk when he got to his block to catch his breath before reaching his door. Eve leaned against the building, reading her phone.

“What was so important you rushed over here without calling?” Malcolm asked, drawing her attention.

“Before calling,” she corrected, putting her phone in her pocket.

“Semantics.” He smiled. She surprised him with a quick hug, his hands still at his sides when she let go. He tried to cover the awkwardness by opening the door and letting her precede him up the stairs. He opened the second door and she passed through into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?” he offered.

“Water would be fine. Thank you.” He filled a glass of water from the tap, handed it to her, and pushed his medications into a top drawer in the island. “You don’t have to…” she started, but he finished the action anyway.

“What brings you here this fine evening?” he embellished, his nervousness flowing into action. His coat found its way onto a stool, yet he chose to remain standing.

“Have you gotten any further with Paul? Your mother continues to be very…distressed.”

“You’re still seeing her?” He was stunned. “You can take her money and run, you know. There are benefits to staying more…detached.”

Eve shook her head and sipped her water. “I don’t look for silent partners.”

His shirt stuck to his skin, sweat remaining from his hustle from the subway station. Whether discomfort or nerves, he couldn’t stand still. “Can you give me a second?” he asked. “Haven’t been home all day.”

“Sure.”

Malcolm grabbed a t-shirt from his dresser and walked to the bathroom. Losing his suit coat, tie, and shirt, he used a washcloth to try to clean up a bit, to feel less disheveled. He rinsed his face in the sink multiple times and ran the remaining moisture on his hands through his hair before blotting his face dry. After pulling his t-shirt on, he checked his appearance in the mirror again, deciding he looked presentable enough.

He reemerged, finding Eve waiting near the couch, sans jacket. “Where were we? Something with Mother.” Malcolm walked to her.

“She’s agitated by the interview, and she won’t admit it, but she’s terrified that Paul is still out there. She still has the gun.”

“I know.” His eyes lingered on her face, trying to read into why she was in his loft. “You probably could have told me that over the phone.”

“Probably,” she admitted, her eyes dropping to her hands. “But this -“ Her hand brushed the stubble at his cheek and she kissed him. “Probably better in person.”

“Oh.” Suddenly the hem of his t-shirt was very interesting.

Eve moved in again, the pad of her thumb brushing his cheek and coaxing his eyes to meet hers. She lingered at his lips, soft brushing soft, giving him time to match her, kissing her lips at the corner and then their fullest point. Soft flew to want, her tongue tangling with his until she broke for air.

Her fingers curled around his at the hem of his t-shirt, and soon it was gone over his head. “You scare me, Malcolm Bright,” she revealed.

“You scare me too.”

She dove for his lips and leaned into him. He met her desire in fevered kisses, his hand embedded in her hair. Soon he found himself falling over the arm of the couch, her lips continuing their exploration. Balance tipped, his mind spun with questions. What was he going to do before her call? Why did she come? Why did she want him? There was no sensible reason for her to want him. But she was nice, eloquent, and she felt _good_. They had only spoken a few times, and it was always in the context of his mother and father. Not exactly stimulating material. She had intruded into his space just like his mother. And her body was melting into his, flowing any way to get closer.

“No - no, no, no, no, no,” he said quietly, his own ears not even sure the words escaped his mouth. Perhaps they hadn’t.

She continued her kisses, her hand reaching for the band of his pants.

“Stop!” he huffed, pushing at her shoulders and rolling away from her, falling to the floor in a thud. His chest heaving with each breath, he sat up and turned away, looking out the window.

“What the fuck?” she uttered, righting herself on the couch.

Words rushed out on heavy breath. “I can’t do this.”

“You were reciprocating.” She pointed out in confusion, convincing herself she hadn’t done something wrong. Had she?

“It’s not - there’s a lot going on in my head,” was all he could explain. Reckless. He couldn’t continue, not in his current headspace. And he needed that to be enough of an answer. 

Eve watched him cower, lost in himself, not sure what to do. The evening certainly hadn’t gone as planned. He was there with her, and then he wasn’t. Very wasn't.

“Can you just - go? Please.” The plea was strained by the weight of questions curling his shoulders.

She rose from the couch and collected her jacket. Hurt bled through when no other words would come. “A ‘no, I’m not interested,’ would have sufficed,” she shared and left the apartment.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Malcolm’s dreams were filled with Eve’s form, the words flowing from her mouth as beautiful as her body. Fingertips glided across her skin, exploring the curve from hip to breast, laying off when her hands did some wandering of their own. Groaning when she touched him, eased him toward light’s enveloping warmth. He needed to hold her close, to -

He catapulted awake, his hard-on tenting the sheets. Quickly unclipping and removing himself from the cuffs, he made for the shower. Under the warm jets, he clasped himself, aching to finish what his dream had started.

Thoughts floated in on the waking air. How many hours until he could go to work? Would he have time to look at more campground photos today? He grumbled, trying to focus on his need.

He pictured Eve, her every movement bringing the two of them more pleasure. Shame bubbled fantasizing her. What was he thinking reciprocating her advances? A welcoming numbing behavior? Had his mother sent her? “Fuck!” he shouted, letting go of himself and pounding the tile with the side of his fist. "Get out of my head!"

Mind too crowded, he flipped the water to cold and strove for composure rather than release.

* * *

Gil walked into the conference room when he saw the light on inside. “When did you get here?” Gil asked.

“Some time before now,” Malcolm replied.

He raised an eyebrow at the tone. “Thanks, wiseass.”

A wisecrack, it was also the truth. Malcolm had donned his suit and gone to the station, not caring to check the time.

“Come take a walk with me. Let’s get you fresh coffee,” Gil suggested.

Malcolm begrudgingly left the photos behind. They walked out of the building, and instead of going to the coffee shop a few doors down, Gil took them over another block. “From the pot at the station would have been fine, Gil,” Malcolm admitted, cupping the warm beverage in his hands as they started the walk back.

“Yeah, but the walk makes it easier to see how you’re doing, kid,” Gil said, recalling the stress ball that had been in his hand when he found him, hiding his movement in gesturing as they walked down the street, and holding the cup so his hands would have something to do. Two days in a row.

“There’s a lot going on right now.” The truth, even if a drastically oversimplified version.

“And I appreciate you working so hard on this case. But I don’t want you renting a space at Edrisa’s.” He briefly rubbed the back of Malcolm’s neck.

“She’d enjoy that too much,” Malcolm quipped, going along with the joke.

“You find anything on your father?”

“I haven’t touched the case,” Malcolm quickly covered, having received a strong warning from Gil not to interfere with the FBI.

“That’s a lie.” Gil cut him off at the pass. “I’m not asking about Paul - I’m asking about your father.”

What part of hours of investigation and revisiting the past would be least alarming? “I know the route, yet haven’t found the campground,” Malcolm shared.

“Anything concrete?”

Memories? “No.”

“Let me know when that changes,” Gil affirmed.

“Look at you dealing in absolutes,” Malcolm poked at the change in tone.

Gil shrugged. “Twenty years was enough doubt. I owe you one.”

“I’m _pretty_ sure that’s not how math works.” Malcolm mimicked a scale with his hands, portraying how heavily he owed Gil.

“Get back to work,” Gil shooed him as they broached the door to the station.

* * *

Their morning briefing time came and went, the team pulled in different directions. “Where’s Lieutenant?” JT asked on entering the room to Dani and Malcolm. He was late and expected he would have been interrupting.

“Junkyard Killer,” Dani commented.

“You get anything on the interview?” JT hoped.

“Sister did not recognize our guy on camera,” Dani relayed. “Mother had cancer - ended things early on a morphine tab overdose.”

Her choice instead of something else’s. And similar to what they suspected of her daughter. “Anything about her relationship history?” Malcolm wondered.

“Tanya, or the mother?” Dani sought clarification.

“Both.”

“Mother had a penchant for bringing the wrong guys home. Never really had any stable relationships,” Dani shared.

JT was curious about their victim. “Tanya?” 

“Wrong guys, longer relationships,” Dani summarized.

“The artist became her mother,” JT repeated.

“Is there anything about her mother in the blog posts?” Malcolm asked.

What wasn’t in the blog posts? JT searched his laptop and read part of a post, “‘The cancer sliced through her chest, a vile monster vying for every resource she had. But it could not win against the morphine, breaths rattling from every tab grabbed. Folded in the rocking chair, life transformed to death.’” JT pushed the laptop back, revealing the shades of blues and blacks forming an abstract representation of her death. “That’s grim,” JT commented.

“Happy Saturday,” Dani snarked.

“Where did I go wrong in life to be here with you two on the weekend?” JT complained.

“I ask myself the same question every time this happens,” Dani returned. Hazard of the job.

“It’s Saturday?” Malcolm realized.

“Solves murders, yet has no concept of time,” JT teased.

One of them had to get them back on track. “Let’s see if that digital identity request came through yet,” Dani suggested.

* * *

Tracing the identity of the theoreyes social media account turned out to be more difficult than they’d hoped. The two other accounts had full names behind them, mothinthedark a man in the UK and evodiva a woman in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Many of the posts from the theoreyes account had occurred in New York, yet identification was pending. More waiting.

They closed the loop on the two accounts and were about to walkthrough the photos again when Gil popped his head in the door. “Go home,” Gil told them all, “I’ll get an alert if we have anything more before Monday.”

_Back to the campgrind_, Malcolm thought, departing for the subway.

* * *

Sunday's sparkly shine flickered through the windows, dancing across the floor. Tracing steps of past flirtation, respite, comfort. Warming wood that cradled feet, supporting heart-to-hearts, arguments, and daydreams. Stretching to brighten sheets, whispers of potential shared in each gleam across her forehead.

Sunday didn't reach the other side of the bed. Fading gradient disappeared into mussed sheets, the night's chill lingering in every crevice. Fallen toward the floor, yet many feet too far to connect. Only a ghost of his form remained in his stead.

Where did the darkness end? Anchored to the bedpost, looping tight around his wrists. Wood floor beneath him paining deep into his hips. A heavy blanket drooped across his chest, trapped beneath the day. Darkness doesn’t end; it never goes away.

Malcolm shot awake with a scream, the force of his hurtling forward yanking against the restraints. Between legs flutter kicking at the covers and hands fumbling to unclasp the cuffs, he fought to free himself. He landed his mouthguard on the side table and ambled to the bathroom.

Slumped in the shower, he let the panic seep and crawl to the drain. He couldn't subject anyone to his life. He struggled with it most days himself.

Seeking some way to free her from his mind, over coffee, he texted “I’m sorry” to Eve, and received a “k” in response. He added more with “wrong timing,” to which she said “I’ll leave you alone.” It wasn’t the refined explanation he felt she deserved, yet it was the one he had. He didn't want to revisit it, and it appeared she didn't either. Few words that brought him hollow closure to their haphazard encounter. Another mishap in the sensual stylings of Malcolm Bright.

_Alone_. That’s all he was. Bound to be _alone_.

* * *

Malcolm detached from conversation at their regular Sunday brunch, eating a soup he couldn’t enjoy, his mother’s and sister’s prattling relegated to background noise. All he had to do was make it through the ritual, and then he could go home to his campgrounds. Big ones, small ones, …

His mother tapped his plate with her knife, drawing his eyes from the bowl. “Eve is such a delight to work with,” Jessica chattered. “And she’s _very_ single. You should ask her out for dinner.”

Malcolm ignored her, continuing to eat his soup, yet his sister piped in. “At least try,” Ainsley suggested. “Good practice.”

“Do remember to leave the murder talk at home,” Jessica lectured.

“Stop.” He forced himself back from the table. “Stop pushing, stop treating me like another piece of your life you have to decorate.”

Apparently stop meant go. “It’s been a-_while_ since you’ve gone out -“

His abrupt snap to his feet primed the pump. “I’m _not_ healthy. What part of _I shouldn’t be with someone right now_ do you not get?” stockpiled vitriol gushed over the dining room table. “I’m barely holding the reins taking care of myself.”

“Don’t be _dramatic_,” Jessica’s disdain brought tenor to her voice. “Sit.”

Drained, his supply of anger was dry. Coat to cloak, he practiced his astute lessons from his mother. “Thank you for brunch,” he told Jessica in an even tone. “Ainsley.” He tipped his head in adieu. “I need to go.”

“Malcolm!” she scolded.

He strode across the dining room, intent to retreat home.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

Large sites. Small sites. Wooded sites. Open sites. Tents only. Campers.

Running through the woods, knife in hand. Not old enough to care of the consequences if he fell. Not knowing where he was going, just endless ground of _trees_.

Wooded sites. How many camps had he run through? How many people had he seen? Running, running, trees, trees - no one.

Every time they went camping they slept in a tent. “Take everything with you, Malcolm,” his father instructed. “We’re not coming back.”

_Not coming back_. Running, running, running - “Ahhh,” Malcolm yelled awake, his head rising from his desk.

He rubbed the cricks out of his neck and pressed his tongue against the top of his mouth, trying to rid the pasty feeling of gross. But the pain persisted, and there was no ridding gross without brushing his teeth.

After a trip to the bathroom, he padded to the kitchen to make tea. His pill bottles stared back at him. Had he taken his medicine? The very reason he kept them on the counter was to remember, but had he?

He took his tea and went back to work cross-referencing campground photos with his memories. Large, wooded sites, tents only, few people. And a forest of trees.

* * *

Morning peeked its way in through the windows, and Gil reached him on the phone before he got dressed. “Comp day,” Gil explained, “we don’t have an ID yet. Get some rest.”

If rest was an activity he could just _do_, he wouldn’t be in this situation. Everything would wait for a mystery’s rapture. Rest, food - _take your pills, take your pills_, Malcolm chastised himself until he completed the action.

Short work to go to, his only obligation for the day was his appointment with Gabrielle. Surely he could make some progress with the time.

* * *

“You’re slipping, Malcolm,” Gabrielle’s words bounced in his head, looking for any way to get through. Yet the space was dense with more pressing matters.

Following his appointment, he needed to reach for something to stop the rattling. He took the subway, walked to the Port Authority, and soon had a bus ticket to a station south of Scranton, Pennsylvania in hand. With three campgrounds that might fit the description nearby, he could do some exploring before nightfall.

The ride brought a chill he couldn’t cover with his meager jacket. More practical layers would have helped. A knit cap would have done him wonders. Gloves would have been wise. Each breath fogged the window. In - out. In - out. He attempted a small smiley face in the corner with his finger that came out looking more like anguish. His forehead rested against the chilled metal until he reached his destination.

* * *

Each of the campgrounds had wide swathes of trees, one more remote than the others. Yet they all had a consistent problem - there was some form of camper section that Malcolm couldn’t place in his memory. _Maybe you’re wrong_, his mind taunted, but he didn’t think so.

He’d seen tree after tree after tree, yet no memory of running through _those_ woods. Sleeping with _that_ backdrop. _Let her go, Malcolm_. _Let_. _Her_. _Go_.

He spun left and right, expecting to see his father, yet only dusk crept in. None of these places were right. He needed to -

“Hey, mister!” the Lyft driver shouted. “Let’s go!”

* * *

The bus delivered him back to New York in the wee hours of the morning and he crawled to bed - the night's version of party 'til dawn without the blissful rush or the hangover. He woke later than normal and hustled to get out the door.

“Hey, bright eyes,” Dani gave him a hard time when he entered the station late.

“Yes, tell me something I haven’t heard,” he countered.

“You have, like, an extra layer of awful going on today,” she pointed out. Always great to hear how much he couldn't hide his lack of sleep.

“Good to see you too.”

“Come with me - we have Slade Michaels in interrogation.” She started to walk away from him.

“Who?” He followed.

“theoreyes.”

* * *

Dani and Malcolm stood in a monitoring room, watching the feed of Gil and JT's conversation with Slade. Dani texted Gil, "I've got Bright."

"That’s not him,” Malcolm commented.

The man before them was lankier than the one on footage, his face longer and clean shaven, his hair short and spiky. Not even close to the man on film.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not involved,” Dani reminded.

"That's not him," he repeated again.

"You hit your head on the way in this morning?" she questioned his repetition.

He wasn't listening. "What?"

"Never mind."

“How long they been at it?”

“About an hour." Her phone buzzed and she read the screen. "Give them a couple minutes, and we'll get you in."

Malcolm was captivated by the activity on feed, unconsciously spinning his pen at his notebook. Slade sitting calmly in his seat, talking for long stretches of time in response to their questions. Not nervous, not agitated, not anything more than having a conversation.

“You alright?” Dani asked.

He didn’t stray from the TV. “Fine.”

They saw Gil and JT exit the interrogation room on screen, and it was another minute before they got to the monitoring room. "Nice of you to join us," JT greeted on entering.

Gil’s look cautioned _zip it_. His own perusal of Malcolm gauged collected exhaustion.

"What did you get?" Malcolm asked.

“Slade and his friend have been bouncing ideas on Tanya’s art pieces for months now,” JT shared.

“Why?” Dani wondered.

“Intellectual challenge. Companionship,” Gil surmised.

"Who's the friend?" Malcolm broached the pressing question.

"We don't know yet. It’s the one thing he’s tight-lipped on,” JT admitted.

“C’mon, let’s go back in,” Gil guided.

* * *

After they resettled in the interrogation room, Gil let Malcolm lead with his questions. "Slade, can you tell us about your job?" Malcolm asked.

After the visible difference in appearance, the next thing Malcolm had noticed was the man's scrubs. "I'm a nurse. You pulled me from work - you should know that."

"What's your specialty?"

"Palliative care," Slade's response rang with pride for his work.

"You provide comfort."

“Yes.”

"How did you meet Tanya?" Malcolm changed the conversation's direction.

"Just like I told those two.” Slade pointed. “I haven't met her."

Precision. "How did you first start talking with her online?"

"Someone was making fun of one of her pieces on Reddit, but I liked it.” He shrugged. “I followed it over to Twitter, where I found lots of her collection, then followed to her website, then joined the conversation. Wherever I found it.”

“Why did you first comment?”

“She spoke my language. Everything came through her art. Every animal, every line, each blush of what she stood for. I wanted to learn more.”

“You’re an artist?” JT asked.

“No, a scientist,” Slade corrected. “Studied a fair amount of biology for nursing.”

Malcolm picked up on a different part of his response. “What did you learn?”

Slade sat up in his chair, eager to share knowledge of their conversations. “On each breath came ideas converted to brush strokes. In - out. In - out. Inhalation, expiration. She wanted her life to mean something before she was gone.”

Inspiration - _expiration_. The physics of _breathing_. Malcolm’s mind glowed with fresh realization of the lung symbol he couldn’t previously identify, the equation with something about pressure, the lines and swirls of blood depicting the last expiration from her body that tipped her to death. The link between biology and physics.

Questioning continued around him, JT probing, “Gone?”

Slade sat back in his chair again, the topic less interesting. “Like her mom. She died kinda young. If she had to leave this world, she wanted to leave something behind.”

Unravelling the allegory left a long strand of _why_? And more importantly, _who_? Malcolm stepped in, “Who’s your friend?”

The man who hadn’t been scarce with words braced and provided a smug reply, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

* * *

Multiple runs at the question produced the same result. They learned more about Tanya, Slade’s conversations with Tanya, the collaboration between Slade and their suspect, yet not the identity of their suspect. They were spending considerable time, yet not making substantive progress. Gil brought the team back to his office to regroup.

“He is _stalling_,” Malcolm groused, wearing a path in the floor.

If Slade could stretch the response beyond something simple, he would. Conversation was natural until they broached anything about his friend, and then he clammed up. “We’re a few questions away from him lawyering up,” JT suspected.

“We’ve got _nothing_.” Malcolm’s frustration pushed through his feet into the floor, through his hands into his hair, through a creak in his voice. Cracks edged open, exposing him to the elements.

“It’s not nothing,” Gil disagreed. They were in for many more rounds of questioning, and he needed to keep the team directed to the positive.

“We can ask more about the physics connection, maybe the drugs,” Dani suggested.

“I-I need a minute,” Malcolm mumbled and walked away from the team.

“What’s up with him?” JT questioned Malcolm’s behavior.

“Let him go,” Gil indicated. Better for him to cool off and come back than lose it in interrogation.

* * *

Malcolm aimed for walking around the block, yet one block became two, became three. _Let her go_. In - out. In - out. Inspiration -

He let out a sputtering cough, doubling over against the side of a brick building. His legs had been running away from his father, too scared to drop the knife. Too scared to watch another bloodied breath. _Let_. _Her_. _Go_.

Brick under his fingers, he regulated his breathing. Chill nipped through his stiff neck and swooped down his back. The wind caught his collar and he fought to press it back in place. Why was he outside? What was he doing?

Disoriented, he righted himself and started the walk back to the station. _Breathe, Malcolm_. His father’s hand covered his face with a cloth. _Just breathe_.

* * *

Malcolm walked back into Gil’s office announcing, “We need to ask him about the physics of breathing.”

“What’s that?” Dani wondered.

He demonstrated an exaggerated breath in and out. “Inspiration - expiration. Slade used the words himself. He clearly understands the biology half, but does he understand the physics?”

"Like the carving?" JT asked.

"Yeah," Malcolm confirmed.

Dani took in his pink cheeks and hair still somewhat out of place. “You got that on a walk?”

“Not really.” He brushed his hand to the side, indicating it wasn’t important. “That’s what we need to ask.”

Gil locked eyes with Malcolm, searching for truth to his state of mind, and at Malcolm’s nod, he was ready to get back to it. “Alright, let’s go.”

* * *

“Do you know what this equation means?” Malcolm turned a page in his notebook to Slade.

“No.”

“Where did you learn about physics?”

“My friend.”

“Your comments on physics, were they your ideas or his?”

Slade’s answers kept flowing. “His. I know biology, he knows physics. We complement each other.” Just like they complemented Tanya.

“Where did you meet your friend?” Dani took over.

“At school.”

“What do you like to do together?”

“Argue.” A huge smile graced his face. “Make our ideas better ideas.”

“Whose idea was it to kill Tanya?” JT pushed, changing the conversation’s trajectory.

“I didn’t want to hurt her.” Still no change in his behavior; not defensive, just fact.

“When’s the last time you saw your friend?” Dani bounced.

“Recently.” Evasive.

“Slade, can you tell us who your friend is?” Dani reached out again, trying to find some way to scale to the answer.

“I’m not telling you.” The same answer they’d heard several times over.

Malcolm tried a different tactic. “Have you ever taken medicine from work?”

“What?” Surprise - finally something that brought discomfort to this man. Slade’s fingers grasped at the knee of his pants, scratched the back of his neck.

Malcolm barely reworded his sentence, stubbornly reinforcing his point. “Have you ever removed medications from the workplace?”

“I want my lawyer.” Slade ended their conversation.

* * *

Gil posted a patrol car outside Slade’s apartment, on hand in case their suspect returned. Dani collected camera footage from Slade’s apartment building to see if they could spot when their suspect was last there. Dani and JT scrubbed through footage looking for their suspect, giving them something to stay occupied while they waited. Waiting, waiting -

“Time is all that matters to him,” Malcolm commented.

_During this missing time what did you do?_ Didn’t call fast enough, didn’t share about the girl, didn’t…

“By the time we find out his name, he’ll be gone.” Malcolm sighed in defeat. His worldview had taken a tip toward bleak once again.

“You don’t know that,” Gil corrected.

“Slade bought him enough time to get _out_.”

“So figure out where he’s going,” Gil attempted to tip his energy back to something more positive.

* * *

Malcolm silenced each of the calls that hit his phone, ignored the smattering of texts. He combed through the list of social media accounts Slade was following on the off chance he would find someone who matched their suspect’s description, yet had so far turned up none.

Gil entered the conference room, pulling his jacket on. “Let’s go,” he urged, “we have a positive ID and an address.”

“He fronted for all that time, and then gave him up?” JT shared his surprise.

“When faced with murder charges instead of accessory and losing his ability to be a nurse, he folded,” Gil indicated. “Slade provided the propofol. They had experimented with using it to get high.”

"That's a dangerous high," Dani commented.

“Time was all that mattered,” Malcolm reinforced.

“Save any more judgement until we get there,” Gil warned. “I need everyone’s heads on straight.”

* * *

A search of the small apartment yielded little of assistance. Minimalist was too great a designation - the apartment contained nearly nothing beyond an air mattress, a few clothes, and a laptop. “No tools, no drugs, no man,” JT summarized.

“A laptop is more than we had,” Dani pointed out.

“But still not what we need,” Malcolm stressed, “this whole case has been excess of content.”

“Everyone go home,” Gil directed. They’d had a long day and weren’t going to make substantial progress cranky and bleary-eyed.

Dani started to suggest, “We can -“

Gil was firm. “Go home. Come back with some fresh perspective tomorrow.”

* * *

Malcolm looked at his phone. Missed calls from his mother and sister. Missed texts from his sister, a barrage of “hello?” “mom,” “dinner,” “now,” and the kicker “you owe me big time! again!” He raised his head when Dani spoke, “How did you figure out that breathing thing?”

“Windows on a bus.” He recalled mapping Slade’s comment to his own experience.

“A bus?”

“Long story,” he dismissed further conversation on the topic.

“Do you want a ride home?”

“No, it’s alright.”

He'd seemed off all day, but she couldn't pinpoint why. She'd boxed the feeling into the general category of _Bright_, yet considered maybe that was a disservice. “You can talk to me, you know,” Dani offered.

Malcolm paused, but didn’t take the suggestion. “I don’t know what to say,” Malcolm admitted, averting his eyes. “Goodnight.”

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

“Come by for breakfast,” his mother’s last voicemail had said, “or if you want, I’ll come to you. I want to make sure you eat something.”

Malcolm got an early start to his mother’s house, not wanting to be late to the station two days in a row. Late meant questions, and he could manage without any more questions. The benefit of heading over for breakfast was a deadline; he had a built-in escape plan when he needed to leave for work.

His mother led him to the dining room, where she had a meal waiting for him. “Dear, your tired has tired,” Jessica commented after surveying his face. “Can’t you take something?”

“No, mother,” he reiterated.

“Is that you being stubborn, or a sound medical decision?” she meddled.

“_Mother_,” his sharp tone got the point through that it wasn’t a topic he was going to discuss.

He lifted the plate covering a small bowl in front of him. “I didn't want to push, so it’s just a little bit of oatmeal,” she explained, “plain.”

Relief. “Thank you.”

He ate a few spoonfuls, his mother glad to see him eat something. “Your father was on the news again last night,” she complained. “Thanks to your sister."

“You _can_ forgive her,” Malcolm pointed out.

"Nonsense,” she scoffed. “It hasn't come to that."

He nudged through the facade for what was more likely bothering her. “Mom, I know it can’t be easy with Paul still out there,” he acknowledged, “how are you doing?”

“Fine.” The canned response for any feelings in the Whitley family.

“_M-om_,” Malcolm emphasized.

“I make it through the day,” she appeased. “What else can you do?”

* * *

Satisfied her son was some measure of alive, when the time came, Jessica let him slip away for work without fuss. Leaving his mother’s house, Malcolm’s gaze caught a vehicle across the street. Was that an unmarked patrol car? He called Gil. “Why is there another unit outside my mother’s house?”

He stopped working at the computer in his office. “There isn’t,” Gil denied.

“I’m looking right at it,” Malcolm insisted.

Gil threw his hand in the air in mild frustration at the day’s antics. “Kid, I got nothin’.” 

Malcolm tipped his head skyward, not believing what he was hearing. When he looked back at the spot, the car was gone. It had been there, right? “Never mind, it’s a service car,” he lied.

Gil shook his head and ran his hand over his goatee. Malcolm would take every last ounce of his patience. “You coming in?”

“On my way.”

* * *

Malcolm booked it to the station, popping into the conference room before briefing and taking a seat. 

"Professor," JT joked, tipping his head while walking past Malcolm to get a cup of coffee.

A sweater had been added overtop Malcolm’s shirt and tie, somehow managing to make him look even more formal with his suit coat on top. "Cold," he noted.

"Got too used to being south for the winter?" Dani chimed in.

"Something like that,” Malcolm murmured.

Gil walked through the door, interrupting their badgering. “Luke Winslow. Undergrad physics student. Senior. His last known whereabouts are Tanya’s apartment,” Gil recapped.

“He didn’t go back home after Tanya’s?” Dani asked.

“No. Didn’t go to Slade’s either. His last trip there was _before_ he saw Tanya,” Gil shared.

JT explained the results of his own research. “No phone activity, no credit card activity, no sightings at school. Guy is just gone.”

“How did Slade tip him off?” Dani wondered.

“He couldn’t have. He didn’t know we were coming, and we've had him in custody since,” Gil corrected.

“Then how did Slade know to stall?” Dani tried again.

“Maybe he knew the plan,” Gil suggested. Everything about the case had been meticulous. Maybe the getaway had been as well.

“The information he had on that was very sparse,” Malcolm disagreed.

JT pulled up the blog and social content again. “What time did we bring in Slade?”

“About 9 or so,” Gil recalled.

“The last comment from theoreyes on Tanya’s blog was 11:02,” JT read.

“They’re sharing the account,” Dani deduced.

“Where was the last login?” Gil requested.

“Manhattan,” JT relayed.

“I’ll get another digital request in for the IP address - maybe we can find him,” Gil indicated, heading to his office.

“What does the comment say?” Malcolm wondered.

“Underground,” JT read.

* * *

The response to their digital request led them to the Upper West Side, where they huddled in a small security room. "We can't storm the planetarium - we'll cause a panic,” Malcolm commented.

The post had been from the previous day. They didn't even know if Luke was still in the building. “We’re not storming anything,” Gil chided the exaggeration. “I’m staying here to watch cams.” He pointed to the monitors beside the building’s security guard. “And you’re going room to room. Report if you spot him. Bright, you stick with JT. _Don’t_ get lost.”

The team split up and walked through the multi-story space, their eyes catching and taking in the exhibits as if they were any other visitor. Yet they couldn't linger, couldn't enjoy more than the first glimpse intended to draw them in. Couldn't stay in any room longer than to clear it and head to the next.

Through several rooms, Malcolm's vision fuzzed with lightheadedness. Had he eaten? He ticked the clock back to when he usually ate and - had he taken his pills? Mother - breakfast. Pills - he'd taken them before he left. Right? Curly hair, look for the face - no, not him.

His mind sloshed with the vivid oranges and blues of planets, sounds bouncing from the metallic structures, and strain of hustling around the building. He followed JT into the theater, pivoted to avoid a child, and found his vision clouding over. Arms reaching in hopes of connecting with the door behind him and staying upright, he tipped backward and crumbled to the ground. As if he'd fallen into the pool of the galaxy, he was swimming.

Splayed on the floor, his eyes opened to the theater’s broad expanse of stars. He peeked out of the tent and tiptoed toward his father’s voice, the lantern on the crank camping radio a bright light amongst the twinkling luster. Paul laughing, his father talking. Between them, twists of hair led to the girl - out of the box.

JT turned around when he no longer saw his annoying sidekick in tow. “Need a hand?” JT asked, standing over him.

_Malcolm, hold right there. Now, push like I do -_

Malcolm scrambled backwards, hitting the wall and pushing up to his feet. The movement also too fast, his head protested again, and he leaned into the wall while the world spun.

"Dude, chill," JT directed.

"Slippery floor," Malcolm covered.

JT held his hand in front of him, palm to the ground, in a calming gesture. “Take a minute." JT looked over an indent in his otherwise composed suit, sweat dotting his hairline, and forced, regulated breathing.

"I'm fine."

_Like hell you are_. "You can sit and get your geek on enjoying the show while I finish," JT offered.

"And miss the main event? Nah." Malcolm left the wall and walked in step with JT again.

“You pass out, and I’m calling Lieutenant to pick your ass up,” JT promised.

* * *

When they gathered back in the security room, their faces were drawn with frustration. "We've looked over the entire planetarium. He's not here,” Dani relayed.

"How about outbuildings? It could be something nearby,” JT suggested.

“Crew outside already finished sweeping the perimeter - nothing. Head back to the station and dig into the account sharing. Talk to Slade and figure out where Luke would go next,” Gil assigned.

"Where are you going?" Dani asked.

"Junkyard Killer update,” Gil responded. “I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can.”

* * *

The team rotated between the monitoring room and interrogating Slade. Again. And again. And again. They approached the art of the runaround facilitating the runaway, yet Slade didn’t know anything. Luke loved the planetarium. He went there regularly. Slade didn’t know any rationale for Luke’s visit other than that.

Dani and Malcolm camped in the monitoring room while JT interrogated Slade. “Here, tea,” Dani handed Malcolm a paper cup.

He reached to take it from her, and it fell from his hand, splashing across the floor between them and catching both their pants and shoes. “I’m sorry,” Malcolm sputtered, scurrying for napkins to clean the mess.

“I’ll get paper towels,” Dani mentioned, walking out of the room.

Between them, they cleaned the floor and their shoes, then Malcolm disappeared to the bathroom to blot the water out of his pants. When he returned, a fresh cup of tea was sitting at his place at the table.

They sat together across the table, tea warming the air between them. Drowsy memories floated on the steam. _Drink your tea_.

Dani nibbled on a small package of butter cookies from the vending machine, dipping each cookie in her tea and draining the liquid from it in her mouth. Dip, bite, squish. Dip, bite, squish. Her head moved a little each time she swallowed as the cookies quickly disappeared.

"It's drinkable," she noted, his tea still untouched.

He sat upright and raised the cup to his face to test the temperature before drinking. Lately it was easier to reminisce the feeling of comfort than try to seek it. _What’s it laced with_? He swallowed the mirage with his tea.

“I can get you a snack if you want,” she offered.

“I don’t think I could eat,” Malcolm admitted.

“Is your stomach bothering you?”

Yes? No? I don’t know? What did he feel? He shrugged.

“Maybe take a few minutes in Gil’s office?” she suggested. “I’ll come get you as soon as we have anything.”

He took another sip of tea, considering the option, when his stomach made itself known again. “I’ll go,” he said, standing and leaving the tea behind, “thanks.”

He set his suit coat on the back and curled himself into a chair at Gil’s desk. A soft song from his childhood meandered in the darkness: “_while the moon drifts in the skies, stay awake, don’t close your eyes_.”

* * *

Gil rubbed his eyes, his exhaustion only receding to his smile lines. Walking into his office, he met feet and followed them up bent knees to Malcolm’s eyes, hidden away behind lids. Faint rising, falling. Rising, falling.

As much as he hated to wake him, he wanted to avoid a repeat performance of a night terror in the office if he could. Gil tapped his knee a few times and waited for him to come around. “Sorry,” spilled out of Malcolm’s mouth as soon as he realized where he had fallen asleep.

“Let’s get you home.” Gil rubbed the base of Malcolm’s neck at his back.

“Luke?”

“Not yet.”

“Dani?”

“Already sent her and JT home.”

Satisfied with the responses, Malcolm followed Gil’s lead out the door.

* * *

Conversation in the car was reduced to Malcolm leaning his head against the window, it shifting slightly each time the car hit a bump. Gil would catch that he was still sleeping from the corner of his eye and continue driving. He needed to get the kid home in one piece before he'd have any hope of sleeping himself. Thankfully, he hadn't protested the ride.

Gil woke him again when they reached his apartment. His hand rested on his shoulder a little longer, squeezing and sharing a "good night." Malcolm had simply dipped his head in thanks and exited the car, his voice disappearing out into the night.

Malcolm dragged himself up the stairs, each step reminding him he was one step closer to bed. He entered the loft to a greeting of _Malcolm, hold right there_.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

Malcolm’s father looked back at him, guiding his hand on the knife. _Push like I do_.

_No - no, no, no, no, no_. _I need sleep_.

He watched the girl climb out of the box at the base of the stairs and skitter across the room to hide under his bed.

He peeked under the bed. _You’re not real_, he tried to convince himself. _I need sleep_.

_Push like I do_.

His father’s slice added blood to the girl’s breaths, blood to the man’s hands. He ran as fast as his legs would take him, his terror lost on the forest.

Malcolm landed in the shower, sitting under the shower head on full blast. His clothes melded with his skin, his suit sinking into ruin against the tile. Clutching his knees, the elements broke him into sobs.

* * *

The day’s morning scream carried a numbness that lingered from the shower’s chill. Malcolm stayed in bed, willing himself to feel something he could get up for. He didn’t know how long had passed when his phone buzzed at his bedside. He answered to Gil’s voice, “Kid?”

“Yeah.”

“We got him,” Gil asserted.

Exhilaration pushed him from the bed and across the room to start getting dressed. “Great - I’ll meet you all for interrogation, and we can -“

“He’s dead,” Gil interrupted. “OD.”

Malcolm stopped, his jubilation falling with his stripped bedclothes. “Give me the address.”

“Bright, we don’t -“

“Give me the address,” Malcolm repeated firmly.

Gil caved. “Central Park West - across the street from the planetarium.”

* * *

Luke’s body was largely obscured in the bushes, only found when a woman left the path to retrieve her dog. Why was he in the park?

A line of propofol snaked from his leg, winding off to a bag at his shoulder. Carvings had bled across his arm, a scalpel still resting in his hand against his stomach and an open box of linoleum cutting tools at his side.

“There’s no note,” Edrisa shared. “Cause of death will need to wait on tox again, yet from the looks of it, asphyxiation with propofol as the contributing factor.”

Malcolm couldn’t make out the slices in his arm, the blood left flowing and not cared for, whereas Tanya’s had been.

“Maybe he was interrupted,” JT posited.

“Or he was just stupid,” Dani scorned, “no way to regulate dosage.”

“Hard enough in a controlled environment, never mind here on himself,” Edrisa agreed.

Had he been leaving a message? A companion piece? Some kind of answer to _Theory in Red_? Malcolm didn’t see any indication of a stand like the previous scene. “Did you find a placard? Anything that explains this?” he asked.

“No,” Edrisa said.

“Why did he do this?” Malcolm asked the air.

“We don’t know,” Gil answered the response on everyone’s mind.

* * *

Malcolm paced at the scene while the team wrapped. Questions bounced and exploded out of his mind in every direction. “Why go to all that work to risk ending it here? Why not run? Why not look for a next victim? Why not reach out to Slade? Why underground? What did it have to do with _Theory in Red_, with _Theory of Revolution_? What is the message? Why did Tanya die? What is the -“

“Can ya cool the monologue?” JT barked. The faster they worked, the faster they could get out of there, and the feverish contemplation wasn’t helping.

“Why-why -“ Malcolm repeated as the next thought stuttered in his mind.

Gil crossed to Malcolm, guiding him back toward the car with his arm. Malcolm’s blathering continued, trying to find some connection, any reason this would have happened.

“Bright,” Gil attempted to snap him out of it, to no avail. “_Bright_.“ He shook his shoulder.

Malcolm quieted and looked at him wide-eyed.

“You alright?” Gil locked eyes. He had tipped into manic.

Malcolm nodded.

_Bullshit_. “I need you to find your distance - give yourself some space,” Gil instructed. Gil had walked all of his team back from the line in the past.

“This doesn’t make sense.” Malcolm scratched his scalp. “I can’t answer why.”

“Sometimes we don’t get the answer,” Gil cautioned.

Malcolm looked around, taking in the world beside the scene. “Ainsley is here,” Gil indicated, pointing to the intersection at the park, “maybe the two of you could get some lunch.”

Malcolm balked. “You need -“

“You to get some distance so you can meet up with us at the station tomorrow when we’re done,” Gil answered for him.

Malcolm interpreted the unspoken, _you’re going home_. “I don’t -“

“You’re going home for today,” Gil responded with a firm order. There wasn't anything they couldn't finish without him.

“Why did he -“ Malcolm started again, and Gil’s glare cut him off.

Malcolm sulked to the sidewalk to find his sister, knowing Gil would be watching.

* * *

Ainsley's coverage finished, and she stood to the side while she waited for the crew to pack up. She bubbled when she saw her brother approach and jumped at the chance for lunch. “You, suggesting food?” she teased.

“I didn’t say I was going to eat,” Malcolm indicated.

“Oh, maybe you can give me a juicy quote,” Ainsley squeed, squeezing Malcolm’s hand.

“No.”

“Mom said you finally got over to see her yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sick? You look off and you’re doing that one-wordy thing that -“

He cut her off. “I’m fine, Ains.”

“I’m picking Thai since you won’t eat anything.” Ainsley pointed at a small walk-up. “It’s good to see you. Tell me how Sunshine’s doing.”

They sat on a park bench trading light conversation while Ainsley ate her food and Malcolm calculated how far into Pennsylvania might be enough distance.

* * *

Malcolm struggled at home, having lost the case to occupy his mind. His rounds of exercises yielded sweat, but no relief. He felt off, yet couldn’t pinpoint what piece of the combination of exhaustion, stress, hunger, or potential illness was causing the problem. His hand itched at the couch in tremor, his mind fathoming the many ways things could have played out.

Maybe it was adoration. “_Look, your breath makes the stars_,” Luke shared.

Or maybe it was all about the gratification, and he accidentally killed himself seeking the same high.

Or maybe he committed suicide knowing they were on to him.

Or maybe he accidentally killed her with too much propofol, and he sought the same end. 

Why? Why couldn’t he solve the cloaked message Luke had left, the memories his father’s actions had pillaged from his childhood? Why couldn’t he sleep like a normal human? Why?

When he finally made it to bed, his nightmares churned with images of the case and his father inflicting an endless cycle of sleep - nightmare - wake that resulted in little rest.

* * *

When Edrisa brought her autopsy report to Gil on Friday, he gathered everyone in the conference room. It was time to wrap and dismantle murder central.

“His wounds are consistent with self-infliction. I do not suspect foul play,” Edrisa shared. “There wasn’t enough blood at the scene for that to be his cause of death. Again, will need to wait on tox.”

“What was on his arm?” Malcolm asked.

“Symbols in the cosmos.”

“Anything else on his person?” JT questioned.

“Couple items in his backpack. Nothing of note.” Edrisa held up a photo.

“Thanks, Edrisa,” Gil extended.

“Why did he do this?” Malcolm reiterated. Why?

Dani met his eyes, sharing empathy for the question. “We don’t know.”

“We can tie Luke, the scalpel, and linoleum cutting tools to Tanya. We can tie Slade to Luke. Lots of paperwork to do, but nothing left to investigate,” Gil concluded.

Frustrated, Malcolm didn’t want to stick around for the litany of reasons they couldn’t figure out Luke’s motives. He’d take the very short day instead. “I don’t think you need me anymore,” he took his cue. “Until next case.”

“Sure, disappear when the paperwork comes out,” JT teased.

“Gotta leave that to the professionals,” Malcolm returned over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

* * *

Instead of aiming for something productive, Malcolm went back to bed, indulging in its pull that he had escaped the day before.

_I wish somebody would come and ease my troublin’ mind_, the record spun in the corner of Tanya’s studio, weaving the soundtrack in his nightmare.

“_I always thought of making a living art piece. It’s one of those things I want to do before I die_,” Tanya spoke.

“_Like this_?” Luke revealed an equation carved into his arm. The equation kept shapeshifting in his skin to show her different options.

“_Yeah. It’s beautiful_.”

_Isn’t it beautiful, Malcolm? That’s what these woods were named after_.

“_You’re my ultimate masterpiece_,” Luke cackled another one of Malcolm’s theories.

_You’re my son_.

Schrödinger’s cat flew through his mind on the cosmos. Alive or dead, alive or dead, in or out of the box, the box, the box -

Headlights shined on the rectangular sign when the car pulled into the campground, a bird staring back at him.

_Hold right there. Push like I do_.

Blood gurgling, pouring out of her mouth staring back at him.

Screaming, the ceiling staring back at him.

_There’s the girl_.

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

Gil was raised from sleep by his phone blasting at his bedside, typically an indicator of overnight homicide. Yet the display said otherwise, and he pressed to answer. ”Bright, it's the middle of the night,” he said, his voice terse and gruff with sleep.

"Gil, I found her!” Malcolm’s excitement exploded through the phone.

"What?” Gil struggled to understand what he was doing at 2AM.

Malcolm rattled on. ”I went for a walk, and I found her! I found the girl!"

"Where are you?" Gil questioned.

The crack of branches underfoot broke the silence while he considered his surroundings. ”I don't know."

Gil got out of bed and started pulling on jeans. "Look around you. What do you see?"

"Lots of trees. Their arms are reaching for me." His voice carried a space cadet quality.

"Can you open the map on your phone and send me your location?" His instructions were specific, masking his impatience.

“Too much light..." Malcolm complained.

"Bright, send me your location." Direct - get him back on task.

Gil stared at the display, willing a map to come into view. After what felt like minutes, a map with a pinpoint in the middle of Pennsylvania appeared. "How the hell did you get out there? I’ve never even heard of Bald Eagle State Forest.”

Quiet contemplation brought static over the line. ”I don't know."

"Are you safe?" Gil asked the most important question.

"I can see her. She's in the woods,” Malcolm’s voice wandered again.

"Bright, I need to know if I need to call ESU before I get there. Are you _safe_?” Gil pushed. A call to ESU now would end his career. He vowed to only call if Malcolm was in immediate danger. He wished he knew law enforcement in Pennsylvania who could help him out, yet the reality was in Malcolm’s current state, he probably wouldn’t have called them anyway. As he’d experienced before, it was a one-man job to go collect the kid.

"Yes."

Gil pulled his jacket on, grabbed his keys, and walked out the door. "Stay put. I'm on my way. _Do not_ hang up the phone,” he implored.

As he started the drive, he heard more footfalls and meandering commentary. He needed to keep him on the line while he moved. "How about you tell me about the girl."

"She got out of the box."

* * *

Malcolm's incessant chattering pattered for the whole three and a half hour drive. Gil couldn’t understand half of what he was saying, but he had never been so glad to keep hearing the kid’s voice. He floored the car when he could, trying to get to him as fast as possible.

Gil arrived to an empty parking lot. Near winter, everyone would rather be warm at home in their beds than camping. He grabbed the first aid kit and headed for the woods. The pinpoint on his map had moved considerably during the drive and was still moving. "Dammit Bright, stay put,” Gil snapped.

"Amongst all the trees, now I see it so vividly." He painted his thoughts.

"Bright."

"She's been here this whole time,” he said plainly.

The pinpoint shifted again. "Stop moving!” Gil hollered.

"Where'd she go?" surprise hopped the line.

The distinct sound of hurling made it to Gil’s ears. "Bright, I'm two miles out. I am coming to help. I need you to stay where you are,” he coached like an emergency dispatcher.

"Something's wrong,” Malcolm moaned.

"What is it?"

"No, no, no, no...she's not breathing,” he panicked.

Gil swapped his phone over to FaceTime. "Show me."

The low light video came through grainy, only showing leaves, brush, and trees. The feed rocked before Malcolm shut it off, returning to a call. "I followed her here. But I couldn't save her. I couldn't." Tears broke through his voice.

Rustling, scraping, and variants of _no_ drifted over the phone. "I'll be there soon,” Gil promised.

* * *

The last half mile, the pinpoint finally stopped moving. Malcolm's chatter and pacing had turned to snuffles, then quiet.

Gil's flashlight caught Malcolm's shivering form curled on the ground, the earth disturbed nearby. "Malcolm, it's Gil," he called, announcing his presence before approaching and resting his hand on his shoulder. Warmth radiated through the sweater into his hand.

"You have to help me get her out. I tried," he lifted his trembling hands, the flashlight revealing blood mixed in with the dirt caking his fingers.

The flashlight continued over the rest of Malcolm's body, looking for any signs of harm. Before Gil could finish, Malcolm pulled his fingers through the dirt again.

"She's here," he pleaded.

"Bright, stop," he tried to quell the movement to no avail, "Malcolm!"

Gil pushed him back, putting himself between Bright and the ground he clawed at. Gil tilted his flashlight toward the disturbed ground. A tiny bone pointed back at him. 

A moan turned Gil back toward Malcolm. "Something's wrong," Malcolm said, pressing his hands into his temples. A few dry heaves shook him, tipping his face into the leaves. 

"Did you take something?” Gil asked, holding his shoulders.

“No…I don’t think so.”

“Which one is it?”

“No. Gil, things are fuzzy,” Malcolm admitted, his head drooping.

Gil shifted his hand to the back of his neck, finding the same warmth. "You have a fever," he explained.

"But I'm cold,” he protested.

_Spending a fall night in the woods in a sweater and sweatpants will do that to you_. Gil pulled the space blanket out of the first aid kit and wrapped it around Malcolm. He disappeared beneath it, overshadowed by its presence.

Now he had a story of hiking in the woods and finding bones, not my kid is unstable lost in the woods. Thankfully, nothing had happened between those times. When he got him home safely, he was going to kill him for failing to ask for help or backup. _Again_. "I’m going to call it in,” Gil explained, "and we'll get you to the hospital."

Keeping his eyes on Malcolm, Gil called dispatch.

* * *

By the time the police and EMS arrived, daylight peeked through the cracks between the trees. The officers had a mountain of questions on scene, yet Gil had urged, "I really need to get him looked at - can we continue this later?"

What had started as a mission to collect Malcolm and bring him to outpatient services had turned into a recovery and long trek to the emergency room. Having been on the mission before, Gil knew Malcolm preferred low key when troubles surfaced. This was anything but. But other times hadn't unearthed physical skeletons. Or someone too weak to walk back out of what he'd gotten himself into.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

Malcolm slept while they waited in a curtained cubicle. The metallic whoosh of curtains being pulled back was a revolving door for several hours of vitals, examinations, and consults. He had been setup with an IV and warm blankets, and they were waiting on room availability to move him. Dehydration, undernourishment, flu, and psychiatric evaluation had floated across the air. Tox screen had been ordered, but hadn't come back. Folded over on himself asleep with his IVed arm across his legs, Gil feared the smallest movement would break Malcolm. Or was he already broken beyond repair?

When they moved Malcolm to a room, Gil continued to sit at his side while he slept, only stepping out when the nurses shooed him. Faint rising, falling. Rising, falling. Gil watched him get more sleep than he'd ever witnessed.

It was the next morning when Malcolm flew upright in a panic. "It's okay, you're at the hospital," Gil coaxed, and Malcolm returned to laying on his back.

"Did they find her?" he panted.

"Yes. They're working on excavation,” Gil confirmed. “It's gonna take awhile."

Malcolm passed several minutes taking deep breaths and resting his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Just after 9."

"Saturday?"

"No, Sunday."

"Shit." A lot of lost time. Malcolm ran his hands over his face, taking in the IV. His disorganized thoughts offered an aside, “Gonna miss brunch.”

“Do you want me to call -“ Gil started, yet Malcolm interrupted.

“No.” His family was contraindicated for restful anything. A text to his mother that he was busy would hold her over for a bit, and he would call her when he got home. A text to Ainsley that he was away would take care of Sunshine. He needed some space for himself.

Malcolm quieted again, his mind slowly interpreting inputs from his body. "I need to get up."

Gil pressed the call button and stepped outside while the nurse helped him to the bathroom. When he returned, the nurse was checking vitals and asking Malcolm about food. Malcolm faltered, the idea of eating nauseating. "How about some soup?" Gil suggested Malcolm's go to.

"Okay," Malcolm caved, knowing he was going to have to pick something.

Gil helped Malcolm with the incline of the bed, trying to get him to a position he'd be able to eat comfortably. The nurse returned with a tray and setup a table in front of him before leaving the room.

Malcolm picked at a straw, removing the paper and sticking it into the bowl of soup. Less chance of fumbling and dropping it. "Want this higher?" Gil asked, motioning to the table.

Malcolm nodded. Gil got the table to a point Malcolm could just sip, not needing to pick up anything or move himself. After a few sips, he pushed the table away. Gil left it, hoping he would go back for more.

"You know, I'm thinking," Malcolm voiced.

"What's that?"

"The science behind this is fascinating,” he glowed. “I found her through my repressed memories."

"You did?"

He nodded. He regarded the soup, a slight ripple vibrating through the liquid. “There's another side of this too, though."

"What's that?"

"I appear to have gotten myself admitted," Malcolm said, annoyed with himself he'd let things get so far out of hand.

"Yes.” Gil rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You have backup, though."

"Thank you." He shifted in the bed and played with the controls, trying to get more comfortable.

"You're making a lot more sense now," Gil noted, glad his wild machinations seemed to be gone.

"Sleep will do that." Many questions swam in his mind - how did he get here, what meds were they filling him with, when could he go home - yet all that surfaced was a yawn. "Gil, I'm still pretty tired."

"Sleep. I'll be right here,” Gil promised.

* * *

Malcolm reached for every clue he could find: under the bed, across his desk, the maps he had circled and crossed out. Bought another bus ticket, strung together a few Lyfts, and wandered. Chattered at the last Lyft driver who kept asking if he was okay, the air that knew not to ask any questions, and the woods that held his father's secrets. When a bald eagle stared back at him in fading, chipped paint, he knew he had reached the right campground.

What kind of paint? Watercolor, heavy acrylic, blood? Drafting pencil lines led him through the woods on paths that shaded and disappeared. The girl called to him, her form shapeshifting between life and Tanya's scarified body, begging him to find her. To locate anything that would bring resolution.

His flashlight beamed along the ground, teetering with his haphazard footsteps. Were the girl and Luke's motive never to be found? Did Tanya have an inkling the guy she was bringing home would kill her? Did the girl know what she was in for when she went home with his father? Did his father care about her? Did his father care about what it would do to him to find her, to try to save her? Did anyone care about him? They had all the individual pieces, yet failed to put them together and solve the puzzle.

_I found her_. That mattered. Someone would care. _Sometimes we don’t get the answer_. Not this time. Branches clawed at him and he hurried through the leaves, trying to reach her.

* * *

A second bout of flying up in bed left Malcolm stumbling to figure out where he was. He found Gil at his bedside and lay back on the bed again. “You’re at the hospital,” Gil repeated.

Why? “My head’s foggy,” he complained.

“It’s the medicine.”

“I want to go home.” _AMA, now_.

“They’re going to keep you inpatient for a few days,” Gil explained, watching Malcolm’s eyes grow. “Until you’ve stabilized. Then they’ll consider letting you go home and follow up with Gabrielle.”

“That’s serious.”

“Yes.” There hadn’t been a single light moment in the past 48 hours.

“What happened?” Malcolm recalled some of the details, yet there were blanks floating in the mist.

“You scared me, kid,” he encapsulated the experience.

How? “I’m sorry.”

“Next time, how ‘bout you call me before you run into the woods?” Gil smiled, trying to light Malcolm’s face.

_There’s the girl_. Running, searching, bumbling, finding. Every flash and turn reminding of where he had fled through the trees. _I found her_.

“The doctor wants to talk to you,” Gil spoke, interrupting his thoughts.

Gil came into focus again, and Malcolm noticed a doctor at his side. When had he gotten there?

* * *

Confusion and instability turned to conversations and adjustments in medication. Monitoring and evaluating his progress. Rest, therapy, and seeing if his symptoms would abate. Screaming through his bathroom mirror, “Is this the bottom?”, shaking the man on the other side. Yet reflection revealed it wasn’t - Gil had already pulled him out.

Gil had brought Malcolm home as soon as the hospital cleared him to follow up with Gabrielle. Waited with him while his mother flipped out. Talked Jessica through all of the details at the café and took the brunt of the bashing for failing to call her so Malcolm could get some sleep. Checked in with him that he was continuing his follow ups. Walked him through the girl in the box case being turned over to the FBI. Agreed to let him come back to work with Gabrielle’s blessing.

There. Gil was _there_. And thanks to him, so was Malcolm.

* * *

The first day Malcolm returned to work, he came in for a few hours to consult on a home invasion gone wrong. “Bringing in the big guns,” JT joked.

“Literally.” Malcolm pointed at the corpse littered with several rounds of buckshot.

“I missed you, Mr. Bright,” Edrisa commented, inspecting the perimeter of the corpse for more pellets to pick up. Malcolm reached for the man’s collar and Edrisa swatted his hand. “Still can’t touch the evidence.”

“Causing trouble already,” Dani teased.

“Don’t think he ever stops,” JT added.

Gil watched them all banter, glad to have his team back together again. “So, what do we have?” he asked them, standing by while they shared their findings.

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments. This was my first Prodigal Son fic, and I look forward to writing more and chatting with the community in the future. Cheers :)


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